


No Tale is More Compelling . . .

by nannahthelesbian



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Merpeople, Angst with a Happy Ending, Character's Name Spelled as Viktor, Chubby Katsuki Yuuri, Drowning, Drowning imagery, M/M, Merman Yuuri, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining Victor Nikiforov, Trans Yuri Plisetsky, mermaid au, no actual drowning tho
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-29
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-12-08 07:21:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11641713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nannahthelesbian/pseuds/nannahthelesbian
Summary: . . . than one that never endsViktor is a fisherman who is in love with merman Yuuri. Every summer they fall in love and part with a kiss. The problem? Their love story replays itself each year. Yuuri never remembers who Viktor is.





	No Tale is More Compelling . . .

**Author's Note:**

> Yep, this is the rewrite of my earlier mermaid fic! I hope everyone who's read that one (like 5 ppl) won't be disappointed with the rewrite :S
> 
> Thanks so much to [mermaidfinn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mermaidfinn/pseuds/mermaidfinn) and [LesbianMari](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LesbianMari/pseuds/LesbianMari) for beta-ing and helping me out!!

At age seventeen, Viktor quietly disappeared from St. Petersburg. He uprooted himself from a life of lushness to live on an island chain on the other side of the country, in a town with a population of under one thousand. He was following his old tutors’ lead, really; Yakov Feltsman and Lilia Baranovskaya had done much the same thing a year earlier. After all, they had no family to leave behind and enough money of their own earning to live out their retirement years in peace.

Though if this island was their ideal destination, they had horrifying tastes. Besides a nice hot-springs waterfall, the tiny string of isles just above Japan and just off Russia’s coast was brutal. Colder than St. Petersburg by far, the hottest temperatures felt like the coolest spring days in the city.

Viktor lived alone, a mile or so out of town by a stony beach and a cliffside holed with birds and speckled with their poop. Given the chance to choose again, he’d pick this strange little place over St. Petersburg every time. Pick this cold and isolation over the city he knew with its busy noise and bustling crowds and expectations and the masses of people that never eased the chilly sting of loneliness he’d carried since he grew up the rich, only son of two genius businesswomen. 

He wouldn’t change a thing, because here on this speck of harsh land he found three impossibilities:

One, a life all his own.

Two, the love of his life.

Three, all in the form of a merman named Yuuri Katsuki.

# 

Viktor’s first year on the islands was about as fun as one of his mothers’ charity galas (and he’d been dragged to several hundred of them; his mamas made up some of the most famous entrepreneurs worldwide, and being their son meant fulfilling the image of the perfect Russian family). But that first year, Viktor nearly regretted settling down by himself somewhere so cold, small, and uneventful. Yakov was asking around to find him a job on a commercial fishing vessel—in between yelling at him to return home, of course.

Only Lilia seemed to understand, doing nothing more than nodding when he told her how stifling St. Petersburg had become. She helped him find his own place, too: a sturdy-looking, bright pink two-room house not far from them with a crooked stoop leading to the ocean. When Viktor gushed his thanks, she simply waved it away, stone-faced. Despite knowing her for most of his life, he was sure he’d never completely figure her out.

Maybe it was that she knew how it felt . . . that she knew how someone could prefer to be lonely with no one around for a while than be lonely with people everywhere. Saying everything and meaning nothing. A bunch of fake smiles and false promises. He remembered confiding in her many times—too many times—when he was younger. She never really gave much advice then, just listened. It was the listening that helped. It was her listening that he missed when she and Yakov moved.

The early days alone had blended together mostly, but Viktor would always remember when everything changed. Late May, the weather still cool enough for a sweater and a jacket, a light drizzle, and the wind rocking the waves white-capped onto the stony beach before his feet. Except for that wind and the sounds it made the ocean create, all was silent in his little corner of the universe.

He’d been sitting with his phone in his lap, face-timing his mothers for the first time since he’d moved—a full nine months.

The face of his mama filled the little screen, pasty in the bright lights of her shared bathroom while she got ready for _something_ professional. There was always something. His ma was in the background, her plump face split with a grin as she waved before throwing on her favorite cleanser.

“You really want to stay there?” Mama asked, meeting his eyes every so often.

Viktor shrugged. “For now. Yakov and Lilia live nearby, and it’s the kind of quiet I need, and I’m getting work—“

“Doing what?”

Viktor’s lips thinned at her critical tone. The familiar worry line between Mama’s eyebrows deepened. Had he stayed with them, sure, he could have followed in their footsteps and be guided into money most people would never have the opportunities for. But it made his stomach churn. Just like all those meetings he sat in on. He just couldn’t do it. And he wanted to laugh when he realized how much easier running away was than living up to the expectations set for him year after year.

“Vitya?”

Viktor shook his head and tucked a strand of hair behind his ear. It came loose almost immediately anyway, lashing about his face. “Sorry, Mama, what?”

“That job?”

“Mmm, right.” He hesitated, looking out at the uneasy horizon. “A commercial shipping vess—“

_“Vitya!”_

Viktor winced. He glanced back to see both of them eyeing him with sadness.

“But you’re so talented,” Mama whined.

Despite the way they looked at him, he laughed. “Not here. Here I’m just any other kid looking for work.”

Mama and Ma shared a concerned glance. “And that . . . makes you happy?”

The laughter died in Viktor’s throat. “It’s okay. For now.”

Mama tutted. “For now, for now, for now.” Then she sobered. “Have you been keeping in contact with your psychiatrist?”

“Yes . . .” Viktor sighed, drawing out the word. He rolled onto his back, holding the phone above him with one arm and letting the other flop onto the sand next to him. 

“And you’ve been getting your medications there without any trouble?”

Viktor sighed, looking down his arm to his fingers. “Yes, Mama.” Depression already as a teenager. He wished he could have left that back in St. Petersburg, too.

His mamas turned as someone spoke to them from outside. Mama held one finger up and walked off. As soon as she left, Ma lunged for the phone.

“Is it beautiful there? Are you safe? Are there _wild animals?”_

Viktor smiled. “I think I saw a weasel?”

“A weasel!”

Viktor genuinely laughed, and was about to say more, but as soon as he opened his mouth—

A scream.

Viktor jolted upright, the phone sliding out of his hands.

“What was that?” Ma asked, frantic.

It happened again, much quieter, watery and garbled.

“Ma, I have to go.”

Viktor ignored her panicked protests, hanging up and dropping his phone on the rocky sand. He leaped to his feet.

“Who’s there?” he said. “You okay?”

Viktor fought with the tangle of silvery hair whipping into his eyesight. He couldn’t see anything out on the sea. No ships, no lifeboats . . .. He whirled about, back toward his house.

“Hello?”

There came the sound of haggard, pained breathing and desperate splashing. Viktor darted across his beach, tripping over driftwood and scattered stones. Was someone drowning? People rarely came his way on the island; they had to be lost.

Rounding a bend and dashing through a jutted inlet, Viktor skid to a stop.

“Боже мой!” Viktor blurted.

Writhing in the shallow surf was a kid, shirtless and mouth open wide in pain. He held one shoulder and rocked back and forth.

Trembling, Viktor threw off his sandals and made his way closer. “Hey, are you okay?”

He wanted to smack himself. _Of course_ the boy wasn’t okay. Closer, he could see the angry, ropey red marks from the kid’s shoulders down across his chest and stepped back.

“A jellyfish?” he asked, voice pitches higher. “Uh . . . okay, one second, stay here, okay?”

Viktor ran a hand through his hair, wishing he could scream. Did this _usually_ happen here? He knew next to nothing about jellyfish stings except some kinds could kill you, and that Yakov had given him the biggest container of vinegar he’d ever seen as a welcome gift just in case he’d ever encountered a box jellyfish.

It was all he had.

Viktor sprinted toward his house and prayed Yakov knew what he’d gone on about. There was no way Viktor could deal with a dead child his first year on his own.

Viktor knocked just about everything over in his path to the kitchen. He shoved everything off his shelves hefted the vinegar to his chest, groaning half at its weight and half in frustration.

When he got back to the little inlet, the boy was still there—and still alive. Viktor splashed over to him and put a hand on his good shoulder.

The kid yelled, falling back and startling both of them.

Viktor slowly held out a hand in reassurance, opened his mouth to probably say something calming, but then he chanced a look down, and—

He stuttered out a curse; everything intelligent sucked right out of him.

The boy was—he couldn’t be—he had a _tail_. Not even a fish tail like in every single fairytale he’d heard growing up, but—like a dolphin’s tail covered in hard, overlapping scales. Like the keratin scales he’d seen on pangolins at the zoo back home. 

He squeezed his eyes shut in disbelief and opened them again. He just compared a boy to a _pangolin_. But the boy had a _tail._

A pained, mewling sound escaped the boy’s lips, and he shuddered and buckled.

“Ah!” Viktor exclaimed, flinching. He tore off the cap on the vinegar and doused the jellyfish stings with the entire container. He winced at the boy’s every hiss and whine.

When the thing was empty, Viktor crouched down in front of the kid. “What do I do now? Are you going to be okay?”

It was then Viktor actually had calmed down enough to actually look at the boy . . . mer—the merboy? in front of him. He seemed young, maybe twelve or thirteen, with soft, chubby features and the largest brown eyes Viktor had ever seen. And he might not know Russian—he looked Japanese; Japan was only a skip away to the South, after all. How had he not registered that before? Not that . . . merpeople were loyalty-bound to a country or anything . . . were they?

Viktor groaned, then wished he didn’t when the merkid flinched away from him. 

“Do you speak Japanese?” he asked. “I don’t know any Japanese, I’m sorry.”

The boy just stared at him.

Viktor searched his wounds instead. “Does it feel better?” his eyes traced the still raw, looping patterns, until—

He couldn’t help himself, he started laughing. A small, nervous, and hysterical sound.

“Look!” he said, pointing.

This, the boy understood. His nose crinkled as he craned his neck to see. The jellyfish sting had whipped down his left shoulder to his chest, mostly in random stripes, but just above his heart, one swirl curled into the exact shape it covered up. A little red heart.

Viktor was still giggling when the boy looked back up at him. There was an actual mermaid at his house--a mermaid with a little red heart over his heart. He covered his forehead with one hand, unable to process it. 

Taking in a calming breath, he took the hand away. The merboy eyed him strangely, lips pressed tightly together to suppress a smile and try to remain frowning. The expression was such a perfect and cute childish look that Viktor fought the urge to burst back into uneasy laughter.

The merkid huffed, his cheeks reddening. He tried to shift, then winced, his hands coming to clutch his shoulder before realizing he couldn’t touch the skin there.

Viktor leaned away from him, biting his lip and recovering a little from the high, nervous energy. “You sure you’re okay?”

He was now completely sure the boy didn’t know Russian. Frowning, he tried gesturing instead, first waving to the sting and then shrugging with a pained expression.

The boy blinked at him. He looked more overwhelmed than anything. Could merpeople handle over-the-counter medications? Were their systems like a human’s? An Ibuprofen or Tylenol could probably help with the pain. 

Viktor straightened. “Yakov!” He’d know what to do. 

Viktor searched the beach behind him for his phone before remembering he dropped it at the other beach.

“Okay,” he said, tone soft and placating, “stay here, all right? I’ll be right back with something to help you, I promise.”

As non-threatening as he could, Viktor rose and made his way back to shore, the whole while holding his hands out calmly. The moment he went out of the kid’s eyesight he ran, not even stopping to pick up his phone.

But the little cove was empty when he returned, just waves and rocks and birds and Viktor, standing into that emptiness. Alone and swallowed by the silence it created.

At his side, almost forgotten, Viktor’s phone buzzed with Yakov’s irate voice. Viktor tapped “end call” without a thought. It didn’t matter anymore.

He ignored his phone when Yakov called back, too. Instead, Viktor sunk down on the sand and allowed himself to be empty for a while. Wonder if everything that had just happened was even real. He curled his knees into his chest.

The merboy didn’t come back. Not the next day or the day after that. Not the next week or the next month—not even when the fall bled into the winter and that winter into spring.

He was just gone.

# 

Viktor, at eighteen, joined the shipping vessel YASNYY and spent most of his time upon the sea rather than staring at it. He learned how to split scallop shells open and boil octopi and other fishermen skills—even if he found himself wondering how the little merboy did all these things. How did merpeople open their scallops? Did they use tools, too? Did they use weapons in the sea?

The ship’s cook, a man who reluctantly taught Viktor Japanese after Viktor begged him for weeks, had caught him staring out at sea one day, chin in hand, eyes glazed over, and teased him. Said he was perfect prey for the merfolk in that irresponsible state of mind. Said one would sing him right overboard.

Viktor had shaken his head, laughing without humor. “I wonder if they even speak at all.”

#

The spring came to the islands as a wave of storm after storm. Viktor often had to retreat farther uphill and stay with Yakov and Lilia, but every period he had off from the YASNYY he ventured down to that tiny cove when it wasn’t flooded. Not quite hoping the boy would be there, but simply to escape from his own escape. How funny that sounded.

He ran his hand through a lukewarm tide pool, taking in a deep breath. The loose bun he’d tied that morning had begun to come loose, but he didn’t seem to have enough energy to fix it. It had been like that the past few weeks, really. Viktor knew enough to recognize a major depressive episode, and he knew he should contact his psychiatrist . . . but that meant using more energy. He didn’t quite feel up to talking to anyone.

A loud splash finally gave him the strength to take his arm back and look toward the sea again.

What he saw sent his heart into his throat to gag on.

The little merboy. A year older but with the same round cheeks, wide eyes, scarred shoulder. He was far out from shore, barely the size of Viktor’s fingertip, but instantly recognizable. 

When Viktor stood, the boy sank farther down into the water.

“Hello?” Viktor said. He added a tiny wave. “こんにちわ!” 

The boy bobbed in the ocean, too distant for Viktor to see his expression. Then, quick as a blink, he was gone. Viktor gasped, instinctively taking a step into the shallows. Five minutes, then ten, then thirty; he hadn’t moved and the merboy didn’t resurface.

But he _had_ come back.

All at once, the empty chasm inside Viktor was forced out of him through a heavy and happy sigh. At that moment, it didn’t matter that the kid had left

Because he came back. And he could come back again.

Viktor hopped in a tiny circle, throwing his fists into the air. He stabbed at the home button on his phone, checking the date. May 30th. He’d keep track of it this time.

But now that they’d seen each other again, would the boy come back sooner? Should Viktor leave him a gift? What would a merboy like? Scallops? He could leave scallops!

Racing back to his flooded pink house, Viktor grabbed a mesh net hung in the kitchen, promising the place he’d come back with Yakov to clean up later. The flood damage wasn’t as bad as either of them had dreaded.

He waded in the deeper shallows and grasses in front of his house, getting his fingers pinched by shells but eventually bagging four scallops before impatience won out. After running back to the cove, he tied the bag around the rock, making sure the scallops couldn’t swim out but still had enough water.

Viktor stood back. It was hard to see the net . . . the merboy could easily miss it. Groaning, he called Yakov and pleaded for a ride. Walking back would take too long. _Everything_ would take too long. He found himself pacing before finally starting to head back and meet Yakov along the way.

When Yakov’s black, old-man car met him speed-walking on the worn gravel road, Yakov opened the passenger door from inside and just raised one bushy eyebrow.

Viktor just offered the simple explanation: “I want to make a friend.”

Yakov shook his head, muttering, “About time,” before driving off.

At Yakov’s place, Viktor somehow convinced Yakov to wait in the car. He stuffed a backpack with one of his sketchbooks, some pens, and everything else he thought he’d anticipate needing. He swore Yakov busted the speed limit on the way back just to be free from Viktor’s nervous fidgeting.

The cove was just as he left it, and Viktor was too excited to be disappointed. Settling down on the sand and retying his bun, he began to sketch the merboy from memory. His lines were crude and unpracticed, but adding that little heart on the kid’s chest made him unmistakable. Smiling, Viktor covered the entire page with clear tape to do his best to protect it from weather and secured it to one of the rocks above the scallops with a bit of rope.

Stumbling back, Viktor surveyed the area. His sign stuck out. The boy would _have_ to see it!

# 

He didn’t see it.

Or maybe he didn’t return again that year. Either way, Viktor was left to wait. Again.

But the boy came back the next year, just to make the same hesitant appearance. 

And then the next year, and the next.

Until when Viktor was twenty-four, the merboy didn’t appear until June, and everything changed.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!
> 
>  
> 
> [my tumblr](http://ferretsonice.tumblr.com)


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